Apologies

He stands in front of his best friend's grave, only silence accompanying him. Mrs. Hudson had gone to the car to give him some privacy. He didn't understand why, he wasn't going to talk to his friends' grave. Only he was, and he couldn't stop himself. He wants to cry, but he doesn't let himself. He forces his eyes to dry and he swallows around the lump in his throat, continuing his monologue. He asks for a miracle, but deep down inside, he knows he won't get one. He's gone and he wasn't coming back. He was lying six feet beneath the shining black head stone. It mocks him with his best-only-friends name in bold white letters; some form of irony there, he's sure.

He thinks about their adventures through London. He thinks about their late night-early morning, depending on who you asked-fights and debates. He misses the noise; the shuffling about the flat, the clinking in the kitchen, the loud exclamations, and the barely heard whispers. He misses the expressions and the idiosyncrasies. He knows he has so much to apologize for, but he also knows he'll never get the chance now. He doesn't know how he's going to stay in 221B anymore. He'll probably move out. He might even leave London all together, giving up his job.

He reaches out and brushes his fingers along the curved top of the head stone, wishing he could see his friend one last time. Even for just a few seconds. It wasn't supposed to end like this. He wasn't supposed to lose everything. He'd never even considered the possibility of him dying, in fact. He had seemed immortal, in some ways; an ever present, but unpredictable, fixture in his life. If he'd known it was going to end up like this, he would have cherished their time together far more. He might have even-no. He hadn't known then. He hadn't known either, and that tears him up inside even more. The man, who knew everything else, didn't know that he loved him.

He tries to stop the tears again, but one or two escape and he berates himself silently. He does not cry. He hadn't when his father had passed, he wouldn't do it now. But he meant far more than his father. He meant the world. Everything was worthless without him. There's a pain in his chest and he doesn't know what to do. With his life or with these feelings he's only just discovered.

He steels himself and gives the grave a small nod. He heads through the grave yard towards where Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even Mycroft are waiting for him patiently. They treat him as if he's made of glass, which he's not.

'He wasn't either, but look at what happened to him.' His mind supplies darkly.

They all leave, in separate cars, of course. He tells the driver to just drive, no destination, but he's putting off going back home. He has been since they found him. The car pulls away from the cemetery, and his mind wanders.

It was a nice cemetery, filled with gorgeous greenery and plant life. It was a beautiful place to remember and honor the dead. And his mind goes to his grave. It sits alone on top of a hill, underneath a weeping willow. It's a gorgeous scene, or it would be if not for those white words glaring at him. Causing him to want to curl into a ball and die;

John Watson